Tell him everything would be okay.
But I couldn’t.
I was grieving too.
And for once, I needed to stop making my pain smaller so someone else could bear theirs.
Vincent lowered his hands.
“Can I hold you?”
I shook my head gently.
“Not today.”
His face crumpled.
But he nodded.
“All right.”
For the first time in years, he accepted a boundary without arguing.
Then he whispered:
“Will you ever forgive me?”
I considered.
I didn’t know.
Forgiveness was complicated.
So was grief.
I couldn’t promise something simply because he was finally sorry.
I looked at him.
“Vincent, I’m not here to decide that.”
He nodded slowly.
“Then why did you come?”
I took a breath.
“Because you deserved to know about the baby.”
My voice softened.
“And because I deserved to tell you when I was ready.”
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then I stood.
Vincent rose immediately.
I looked toward him.
For a moment, I remembered our wedding.
The promises.
The hopes.
The belief that we’d face everything together.
Then I whispered:
“I’m going to continue the divorce.”
His face collapsed.
“Claire.”
I shook my head.
“I can’t keep waiting for the man you used to be.”
For a long moment, he stared.
Then nodded slowly.
I walked toward the door.
Behind me, Vincent whispered:
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
I stopped.
Tears slipped down my cheeks.
Then I answered:
“So am I.”
And I left.
For the first time, he knew exactly what we’d lost.
But knowing didn’t bring our child back.
And it didn’t bring our marriage back either.
